Melancholia
by EspoirDio
Summary: Erik and Christine share a small moment together in which Christine will learn an important lesson. (K)Erik/Christine
**A/N: Just a little thing that's been floating around my head. Let me know your thoughts!**

Melancholia

It was after her Angel had become a man and the phantom had turned out to be nothing more than a ghost that Christine encountered Erik in an unusual mood. She had emerged from the bedroom he had prepared for her in hesitant anticipation, expecting to find him pouring over a sketch or fully engrossed in a newly acquired book. Instead she spotted him in a half-reclined position on the bordeaux-coloured love seat.

"Erik?" she asked tentatively but received no reply.

Another step closer awarded her a view of his masked face and the eyes that were closed. Despite the peaceful scene in front of her, however, a sense of dread descended upon her. He had always been a thoughtful and engaging host, quick to anger, certainly, but just as quick to put her at ease. He had been charismatic and polite, entertaining her with stories of his travels if she asked and reading to her from books that introduced her to spectacular new worlds. In short, he had lit up this dingy cave with the sheer power of his imagination and without him to shine the way, she felt terrified and lost.

"Erik!" she demanded again but it was only the cat that lay lazily stretched out across his lap who lifted her head and hissed at her.

Angry little sobs built up in her chest and somehow found their release in hasty, pressing puffs of air.

"Are you ill?" her voice quivered.

He had been unresponsive like this once before but that particular dreadful silence had followed a terrible display of spasms and pains she could not bear to revisit.

"Please, Erik, shall I make you a tea? I am certain I can use the samovar now."

With every second that slipped by in silence, the air seemed to grow icier around her and the walls seemed to close in.

Would they both find their tomb underneath the opera house? Encased lovers that the world had forgotten?

Another heavy breath escaped her as she finally collected the courage to round the sofa and sink down on the ground in front of him.

"Erik, please, I'm frightened. Have I angered you?"

At last his eyes opened and found hers.

"Christine?"

His voice caressed her tenderly yet seemed too far away to reach her. But at least he was alive, at least he hadn't abandoned her. Relief overwhelmed her and tore one pitiful sob after the other from her throat.

"Don't cry, my child, whatever has upset you so?" he asked and she detected puzzlement in his voice.

"You failed to respond to me. I thought…oh what a silly creature I am." She chuckled ruefully.

"Christine, forgive me." He sighed. "For a moment I forgot all about this life. Dry your eyes, I am perfectly fine."

She did as she was told, clumsily using the sleeves of her dress.

"So you are not feeling unwell again?" she probed carefully and was surprised when he extended his hand to her.

"No…perhaps…" he hesitated and inclined his head thoughtfully, "no, I am not unwell." He finally decided and stretched out his fingers expectantly.

She blinked away the last remainders of her sorrow and took his hand, allowing him to help her onto the love seat by his side and relishing the feeling of comfort that it gave her.

"You sound uncertain."

"I had not considered it as an illness before," he explained, the corners of his mouth turning up into a wistful smile, "but I suppose it is rather a mood. L'ennui they call it."

She turned to face him in surprise, her hand still resting in his. "I had not taken you for a man to experience such profound boredom."

"Oh, I am quite often restless," he chuckled, never once removing his eyes from the touch that had been created so naturally, "but it is so much more than that."

"I don't understand," she frowned.

"It's a deep state of melancholia."

"Sadness? How dreadful, Erik, why would you embrace it so eagerly?" she asked.

"It's not dreadful, my dear, it's beautiful. Consider a moment of utter bliss in your life. Relive it, savour it."

He paused but continued hurriedly when he saw her open her mouth. Whatever memory she'd been wanting to share would no doubt sting him and he desperately needed to protect this pristine moment of peace between them. He needed to savour her touch for just a moment longer.

"Yes," she whispered almost in a tender sigh, her cheeks flushing with delight, "I am."

"But how did you feel once it passed?"

"Disappointed," she broke into a frown.

"Perhaps…or maybe tired or fatigued."

She nodded but the puzzled look on her face remained.

"Now consider a moment of utter despair." Once more he allowed his words to sink in before continuing quickly: "You were overcome, were you not? It carried you to the very limits of your being."

"Yes." This time her response was quieter.

"Melancholia, to me, is nothing like that. It is a blissful state of tranquil existence. Thoughts chase each other lazily and feelings well up as they please. It is a balance like no other, as soothing as the best, undisturbed sleep. I do not experience symptoms of physical fatigue though perhaps there is a slight side-effect of unawareness for which I apologise."

His gentle, playful tone coaxed the first genuine smile to her lips.

"So you see there are degrees of sorrow in joy and triumph in sadness. Only melancholia balances them in equal measure. And that, my dear, is beauty."

Once more she felt tears prickling behind her lids and her heart seemed to brim over with a feeling she could not quite place and by its own accord her body sagged against his. Who would have thought that darkness and light contained such remarkable spectrum of colour?


End file.
